


My Shot

by Alphinss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 15:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10597356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alphinss/pseuds/Alphinss
Summary: John had never really coped well with loss. So when he lost Sherlock he was on the verge of breaking. Mycroft knew just when to be there at the right time. John comes to rely on the man more than ever. So what happens when Sherlock decides to return?





	

The gun shook in John’s hands as he examined it intently. His fingers clutched the handle his finger hovering over the trigger. John had killed so many people that he had lost count but this was a kill that he could not come back from. Pulling the coking handle back John readied the weapon for its final kill. He pulled the gun up to his temple feeling the cold metal against his head. His breath hitched in his chest, his heart pounding faster than he knew possible. The blood rushed through his ears, his head pulsing as he pushed the gun harder into his temple, the metal biting into the skin. A tear began to fall, then another and another. John’s vision became blurry with the cascading tears. He let his eyes close as his finger found the trigger guard. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. He was ready. He took the safety off and then placed his finger on the trigger. This was it. 

Suddenly John felt his arm being thrust to the side. His shoulder was jolted backwards, his hand drooped the gun and he heard it clatter to the floor. John felt a harsh grip on his wrist. His eyes snapped open at the sudden movement. Before him stood a flustered looking Mycroft Holmes. The man had a tight grip on John’s wrist that John was sure would leave a bruise. He was a doctor after all. Mycroft had an angry scowl on his face as he looked at John. Mycroft’s grey eyes were hard and he did not look impressed.

“What in the name of God are you doing John?” the man growled out, the grasp on John’s wrist only tightening. The usual smooth tone was rough with emotion as he spoke. “This is _not_ going to solve anything John. What are you hoping to achieve by killing yourself?” the man said with an angry huff of breath. John had never seen the man so emotional before. John had no idea that the man even cared. A tear began to trickle down the dried tracks that already marred his skin, it was followed by many more that John no longer had the strength to keep in his eyes. Mycroft, seeing the man before him loose his composure to such as extent caused him to loosen his grip on the man’s wrist. John’s arm flopped to the couch, seemingly boneless. John slumped into the sofa, doing nothing more than let the tears stream down his face, not even blinking. 

Mycroft sat down on the sofa next to John. He let out a sigh. These sorts of situations were not his forte. He attempted to comfort the man. He placed a gently hand on the man’s shoulder. John’s body leaned into the contact. He let his head rest on the man’s shoulder and let the tears run down his face until he couldn't cry anymore. His eyes flickered shut as he ran out of energy and he lost himself to the realm of sleep. 

* * *

“Mycroft, I-I-I.” John managed to stammer out over the phone. His hands trembled as much as his voice as he managed to speak to the man on the other end of the telephone.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes John. I need you to stay on the phone with me, John.” John gave out a huff of breath that may have been interpreted as an affirmation. Mycroft took it as such. “Good John, I’m getting in the car now.” Mycroft’s breath was shallow as he spoke, it was obvious that he had been walking rapidly to get to the car. John could hear muffled voices through the phone of Mycroft ordering the driver where to go. “John, I need you to breath for me. In and out John, in and out. Yes that’s it.” Mycroft could hear John’s regular breathing through the phone. He knew that he was making progress. If John was able to regulate his breathing then he was not as far gone as he had been in the past. There was still time. The next fifteen minutes were spent in tense, one-way conversation. Mycroft, attempting to calm down the man on the other end of the phone as much as possible. 

The black car pulled up outside 221B and Mycroft rushed out of it. He rapidly walked up the stairs, almost at a run. However he was still not so worried that he would rid himself of all dignity by letting his underlings see him running. He pushed the door open the door with a bang. John was curled up on the sofa, the phone still clutched in his hand. He was shaking violently and his form was pale. His gun sat on the table, John’s eyes were fixed on it. Mycroft walked toward John’s figure. He stood in front of the man, blocking John’s view of the gun.

“Come on John, let’s make some tea.” Mycroft took John’s hand in his and led the man to the kitchen. He gently pushed the man down into the seat and set about making the promised cup of tea. The kitchen was considerably cleaner since Sherlock’s death. There were no longer mangled body parts littering the countertops or severed limbs in the fridge. Instead there were clean mugs and fresh food. Mycroft approved of the new set up, although he was sure that it was not something that was helping John in the long run. It had been eight months since Mycroft had first walked in on John. Mycroft had been over to 221B over a dozen times in that time. Six of those times, now seven, had been for support, however the others had been social calls. There had been no reasoner Mycroft to visit and yet he had. It was peculiar for Mycroft to want to do anything that was not a national crisis or a family one, not that there was that much difference. Mycroft set the tea down before John and sat down next to the blonde. John’s head tilted, resting on Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“Thanks Mycroft.” John’s voice was still shaky and yet he felt much more stable now. “I don't know what I would have done without you being here Mycroft.” He said with a sigh. Mycroft felt John’s hand snake around his back. It rested on his hip and John closed his eyes. Mycroft looked at the man before him, unsure of what to do to. He felt a flutter in his chest as he looked at John’s face. The man’s eyes flickered open to look into the grey ones looking down at him. John let out a hum as the grey and blue met. He lifted his head off the man’s shoulder. John took Mycroft’s chin in his hand, the other curling tighter around his waist. Holding Mycroft’s chin in place John lent forward. His lips met the other man’s and his eyes flickered shut. For a second there was no reaction from the other pair of lips and John thought that he had made a terrible mistake. However as John was about to pull away Mycroft’s hand reached up into John’s hair, his fingers tangling in the short blonde stands. He pulled John’s lips onto his and deepened the kiss. He supposed this was the start of something new. 

* * *

Sherlock burst into his brother’s house. He had been trying to find the man for the past twelve hours. The man had not been at his office and he couldn't find him in any of his usual haunts. That left only one location, the man’s house. Sherlock had not seen his brother in two years and he was sure that the man thought him dead. Sherlock was confident enough in his own deception that he believed he had fooled Mycroft. The man may be more intelligent than him but Sherlock had puled out all the stops to fake his death. Even the incredible Mycroft Holmes could not see through it. Sherlock was ready for his big reveal.

Sherlock was met with an empty room as he pushed the door open. He sighed in frustration. Why was it so difficult for his brother to be in the right place when he needed him to be. Sherlock didn't pay attention when the clock struck twelve. It never occurred to him that his brother may be other wise engaged, or even asleep at such as hour. Sherlock assumed that if he was awake then his brother would be as well. Sherlock, first, made his way to his brother study only to find the room empty. He explored the rest of the house, the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, only to find them all empty, all of the lights switched off. Sherlock had only one more room to check. He couldn't understand why his brother would need to be in that room. His brother didn't need to sleep. Sherlock sighed and pushed open the door with a bang.

“For God’s sake Mycroft, why are you in here of all places?” Sherlock spat out. A groan came from the bed, one that was most definitely not Mycroft’s. Sherlock froze. That was a voice that he recognised. One that belonged to his best friend. “No.” Sherlock muttered out as the pieces in his mind slotted into place. This was not how he had envisioned the reunion with his brother. This was far more intense then he was expecting. He had not wanted John to be here. He was not ready for this. Sherlock stood frozen, unable to move as John sat up in the bed, his eyes squinting against the light from the open door. 

“Myc” John said, his voice was gruff with sleep and he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. A rumble in response came from behind John. 

“John, what is it?” Another voice, rough with sleep broke though the room. However as John heard the man’s voice, all of the sleep the had filled his brain disappeared. His eyes snapped open, clarity in his vision. He was not a solider for nothing. His mouth dropped open as he realised just who it was standing in the doorway. 

“No!” John shouted out, causing the man behind him to rocket upward out of bed. “No, it cant be you. No!” John yelled. Mycroft, by this point had fully caught up, his brain working a mile a minute. It seemed that his brother was alive. He was not sure that this was a good thing. John pushed himself up of the bed and Mycroft watched as the situation played out. John needed this. He needed to do this alone. Mycroft would let him have this, even if it meant that his little brother got hurt. He supposed that the man deserved it. He had pretended to be dead for the past two years. Mycroft, even though he refused to show it, was himself, immensely annoyed at the man that was now standing in the doorway to his bedroom.

“What is _wrong_ with you?!” John yelled, stamping toward Sherlock. The anger was audible in his tone and visible by the deep shade of red on his face. “How dare you! How dare you just turn up like this!” Sherlock could do little more than stare as a fist rocketed towards his face. It made an audible crush as it connected with his nose. Sherlock stubbled back at the force of the blow, blood flowing from his nose. Sherlock’s hands flew to his face to stop the stream of red and to sooth the bloom of pain that he felt blossom on his face. Sherlock looked in shock at the man before him. He couldn't believe that John had punched him. 

“Get out!” John screamed. “Just…just…” John couldn't finish. Before he could get any further tears began to stream down his face. His form crumpled, his legs becoming weak. Mycroft was there. He pulled John’s form into his chest, soothing the man. Over John’s shoulder Mycroft gave a glare filled with anger to his younger brother. Sherlock got the message. Trying to look dignified Sherlock made his way from the room. He'd be waiting in the living room for the pair to descend when ready. This was certainly not what he had been expecting when he walked into the house this evening. 

In the bedroom Mycroft ran a soothing hand through the younger man’s hair. He helped John to stand and placed him delicately on the bed. John was not ready for this. It had taken him nearly sixteen months for John to stop ringing Mycroft in a panicked voice, begging for the man to come over. The only real reason that the calls had stopped was that John had moved in with Mycroft. Mycroft had also given John a copy of his schedule meaning that the man could come and meet him if he ever needed to. Of course Mycroft was still willing to come to John whenever the man may have needed it. John was only just getting over Sherlock’s death. For the man to turn up so suddenly, to come back from the dead, was not something that John was stable enough to deal with. 

“You-You didn't know…did you?” John managed to mumble out, somewhat coherently. However it sounded more like John was begging Mycroft rather than questioning him. 

“No John. No” Mycroft said firmly. His voice was gentle but it left no room for argument. He wanted to make it clear to John that there was no way he would have let the man, now his lover, suffer through such pain for the past two years. “I didn't John. I didn't know.” John gave a nod as the man spoke. He straightened up and whipped the tears from his eyes.

“Right. Well, let’s get ready to face your brother then.” John was in full army mode. His emotions had been pushed down and he was ready for a battle. His face was stern and his body stiff as he put his clothes on. Mycroft followed the man’s example, dressing in a pair of black slacks and and a crisp white shirt, he pulled on a pair of slippers, the occasion not warranting anything more official. He was in his own home. He didn't need to look as formal as his day to day activities required. Mycroft looked over to John who had dressed himself in a dark blue jumper with a matching pair of dark blue jeans. His feet were bare and he gave a small smile to Mycroft as he noticed the man’s gaze on him. Mycroft gave John a nod and the two made their way downstairs, ready to face the man that both had thought dead until five minutes ago.

As John and Mycroft entered the living room they saw the seated form of Sherlock, lounging on the couch as though he belonged there. The only difference from the normally indifferent facade that Sherlock maintained was that the black haired man had a blood stained tissue held to his nose. Mycroft seated himself opposite the man, waiting, watching as the events unfolded. This might be Mycroft’s brother but the situation was John’s to dictate. John stood for several seconds, doing little more than staring at Sherlock’s form. 

“Why Sherlock?” John whispered out. However in the silent room his voice was deafening. “How could you do this to us? To me?” John’s voice was hard, filled with the pain of the past two years but it never rose above a whisper. Mycroft was glad that he was not on the receiving end of the anger that was radiating off John in waves. “You were dead Sherlock. You were dead.”

“Well, the short version of it is that I’m not dead. I suppose that’s about it really. I mean I probably shouldn't have sprung it on you like that but, well, I didn't expect you to be here.” Sherlock said nonchalantly, giving a shrug along with his words. Although the effect was slightly ruined by the blocked nose that he now had. John lunged for Sherlock, his fist coming up yet again to strike the man that had once been his best friend. Mycroft rushed forward grabbing John’s arms before he could get any further forward.

“John, no. You've already broken his nose. I’m sure he’s had enough for now.” Mycroft said matter of factly. John would listen to reason if given it. Mycroft just needed to deescalate the situation and rapidly. “Sherlock” Mycroft growled out. His tone was harsh and his eyes were hard. His brother was not about to get away with destroying John’s life again. “Sit up and explain to John what you are doing here.” his tone was serious, leaving no room for argument. Sherlock gave a glare to his brother but he still straightened his back and adopted a more formal sitting position. 

“You know very well..” Sherlock began

“I’m not asking for me Sherlock.” Mycroft interrupted before Sherlock could get any further. Sherlock gave an overly dramatic sigh as his brother spoke. He prepared for the long explanation that he was sure he would have to give. He began to speak rapidly, as though trying to get the explanation over with as quickly as possible. 

“I calculated that there were thirteen possibilities once I’d invited Moriarty onto the roof. I wanted to avoid dying if at all possible…” however before he could get any further John’s voice interrupted the long speech that would have been sure to follow. 

“I don’t _care_.” John barked out. 

“What?” Sherlock questioned, the confusion audible in his tone. What did he mean he didn't care? Surely John would want to know. John had always marvelled at his genius in the past, so what had changed?

“I don’t care how you did it Sherlock. All I want to know is why. Why would you do that to me? You had two years Sherlock. All it would have taken is a fucking text!” By now John was shouting. The rage he was feeling was bubbling underneath the surface. “One word Sherlock. One word!” 

“I did it to protect you John” Sherlock defended. “and I was afraid that if you knew then you would be too indiscreet. I don't want everyone knowing that I’m alive John.” 

“Just go. Get out.” John demanded. “I don't want you in my house. I don't want you in my life. I can’t do this Sherlock. I can’t.” With that John walked out the room, slamming the door behind him. Several seconds later the two Holmes brothers heard the front door slam shut. It appeared John was going out for a walk. 

“You really have done it now haven't you little brother.” Mycroft teased. 

* * *

John went to the one place that he knew he would be welcome. He may not have seen the woman in six months but he knew that she would be there for him no matter what. After all once a housekeeper always a house keeper. John rapped his knuckles on the door and waited. It took several minutes but finally a disheveled looking Mrs Hudson emerged. She was wearing a pink fluffy dressing gown and matching slippers. Her hair was messy, tangled and sticking up in odd directions. Her eyes widened as she saw John Watson before her.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing here John? It’s one o’clock in the morning.” The woman sounded unimpressed. John could do nothing more than stare at her. Mrs Hudson sighed. “Well come on in then. I’m awake now. We might as well have a cup of tea.” She motioned for John to enter before turing around and beginning to make tea. Several minutes passed before the tea was ready. Mrs Hudson set it down before John before she herself sat. She then waited expectantly for John to explain the reason for him being here. 

“He’s alive” John moaned. Mrs Hudson rose a brow in question, waiting for John to continue. “Sherlock. He’s alive. He’s not dead. He didn't die.” John blurted. He shook his head, as though denying that what he said was true. At his words Mrs Hudson let out a small scream.

“What…what are you…” she stammered out. “You’re serious?” she squealed out. “I cant believe it. Where is he John? Where is he now?” Mrs Hudson demanded. 

“He’s…he’s at Mycroft’s house.” John reluctantly replied. Once he told the woman that he was sure that all the other secrets would come tumbling out. John’s relation with Mycroft would not remain a secret for much longer. For the next two hours the pair did little more than talk and eat biscuits, both needing some comfort after finding out such toppling news.As the clock struck three John decided that it was time to return home. He rang up a taxi. Giving a hug to Mrs Hudson he left the house that he had once called home and made his way back to his his true home. 

Stepping through the door John ignored the voices of the Holmes brother that he could hear through the door. He walked up the stairs, having kicked off his shoes at the bottom of them. He was sure Mycroft would complain about the mess but as of this moment he couldn't care less. He was too tired to deal with any of this shit. He stripped off his clothes and collapsed into his and Mycroft’s bed. He was sure that the other man would not be making an appearance tonight. He and Sherlock would have far too much to talk about.           


End file.
